Rattle. No, my Dear, I was at the breakfasting at Ranelagh.—Curse catch me, Jack[ [2], if that is not a fine Woman in the upper Box there, ha!
Smart. So she is, by all that's charming,—but the poor Creature's married; it's all over with her.
Rattle. Smart, do you go to Newmarket this meeting,—upon my Soul that's a lovely Woman on the right hand. But what the Devil can this Prologue be about, I can't imagine. It has puzzled the whole Town.
Smart. Depend upon it, Dick, it is as I said.
Rattle. What's that?
Smart. Why one of the Fransique's, the French Harlequin's Jokes; you will find that one of the Players come upon the Stage presently, and make a[n] Apologie that they are disappointed of the Prologue, upon which Macklin, or some other Actor is to start up in the Pit, as one of the Audience, and bawl out that rather than so much good Company should be disappointed, he will speak a Prologue himself.
Rattle. No, no, no, Smart. That's not it. I thought of that and have been looking carefully all over the Pit, and there is not an Actor in it. Now I fancy it is to be done like the Wall or the Man in the Moon in Pyramus and Thisbe; Macklin will come in dressed like the Pit and say:
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am the Pit
And a Prologue I'll speak if you think fit.
Omnes. Ha! ha! ha!